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He disappeared into the bathroom, then emerged a minute later. Cate couldn’t see what he was doing—the screen shielded him from her view. But the sounds that came to her were the unmistakable sounds of a man dressing, including the rasp of the zipper on his jeans. And Cate’s imagination moved into overdrive thinking about the strong male body that had held her through the night.
She slipped out of bed, grabbed her clothes and hurried into the bathroom. She was quick, though not as quick as Liam, and that thought made her smile. As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. Wondering why she looked so different. Then it came to her. She was still smiling. And not just the perfunctory smiles she used to make the people around her think she was okay. She was really, truly smiling, because she felt good. Energized. Because she was looking forward to the day. Because of Liam.
Then the smile faded when she unbuttoned her pajama top as she started to change into her day clothes. Liam hadn’t undressed her last night when he made love to her. Because of the scars? she wondered now. Last night she’d been grateful he hadn’t attempted to get her naked any more than he’d gotten naked himself. Last night she hadn’t been ready to go that far, and somehow Liam had known it. But this morning she couldn’t help but wonder if the reason he hadn’t was because her scars would turn him off. The way she’d always thought they would turn off any man.
She’d shown him the scars the other night—angrily. Defiantly. Needing in some perverse way for him to know just how damaged she was, physically as well as emotionally. Trying to push him away before he could reject her, so it wouldn’t hurt quite so much. He hadn’t turned away from her in disgust, though—not the other night. But his actions last night took on a totally different meaning...now. Was that the real reason he hadn’t undressed her? Because of her scars?
She turned around and craned her head so she could see the scars in the mirror. It was more than seven years since the last scar had been inflicted, closer to eight. Because when she’d finally realized her only chance for escape would come once Vishenko believed she’d been totally vanquished, she’d surrendered. Seemed to surrender. She’d never surrendered in her heart, but she still retained guilt she hadn’t fought him to the bitter end. That she hadn’t died rather than let him think he’d conquered her.
All these years later the scars had faded. Not completely—nothing would ever erase them. But they weren’t the angry red of freshly healed scars the way she always imagined them in her mind. Now they were silvery crisscross traces of where Vishenko had beaten her until her back was bloody and her resistance shredded.
Last night she’d confessed almost everything to Liam. Almost everything. The one thing she hadn’t told him—the one thing she’d never told anyone except Angelina and Alec, and subsequently the prosecutors—was that she’d eventually surrendered her body to Vishenko. Not willingly. But knowingly.
Which meant that Liam—a man with such strong moral convictions, a man who professed to love her—would never love her if he knew the whole truth. Which also meant she could never tell him.
* * *
Dinnertime had come and gone, and so had Callahan. He’d brought news, too. Good news. “One of the marshals wounded in the firefight was discharged this afternoon,” he’d said in his dry, acerbic way. “And the other should go home tomorrow.” He’d hesitated a second, then added, “The other prosecutor’s injuries are more serious, but his condition has been upgraded and he’s no longer in intensive care.”
“Thank God,” Liam had said in such a heartfelt tone Cate had known he meant it literally.
Liam still believes in a just and merciful God, she thought now. Just like Alec. Just like Angelina. She wished she could. A tiny voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she had escaped. And she’d kept her freedom for more than six years before Alec located her. But that wasn’t God’s doing, she told herself now, ruthlessly squashing that tiny voice. That was just...happenstance. Luck. And never settling into a routine. Never staying in one place for very long. Never risking anything, especially her heart. Because what you didn’t risk you couldn’t lose, and she’d already lost more than she could afford. Her pride. Her dignity. Her self-respect. Survival had depended on risking nothing more.
She dried the last of the dinner dishes—Liam had cooked so she’d washed up—and put them away in the cabinet. Liam had already made a perimeter check, and was now sitting on the back porch, watching the sunset. She squelched the urge to join him, and instead fetched one of her treasured books, settling herself in the rocking chair to read.
